


Suffering Brings Wisdom (and i wish to be less wise)

by candyvan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: ? sorta?, BookDealer!Lydia, Books, F/F, Magic, Road Trips, Sexism, Spells & Enchantments, Supernatural Elements, Werewolves, ambiguous era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 07:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11527206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candyvan/pseuds/candyvan
Summary: Lydia Martin is a renowned rare book dealer who owes a favor to a man who asks too much.- - -“What are you supposed to be," Lydia scoffs, "My guardian angel?”“Maybe. If that comforts you,” Allison turns, looking out the window of the plane. Into the dark night sky, she breathes, “Lucifer was an angel, after all.”





	Suffering Brings Wisdom (and i wish to be less wise)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a William Yeat's poem. I was inspired to write this after watching half of The Ninth Gate so it is incredibly loosely based around that. Johnny Depp is a piece of shit, pass it on. 
> 
> Enjoy!

While they make for an interesting read, Lydia has never been one to believe in the occult. Faeries, witches, monsters that go bump in the night- they’re all just words used to describe a life of nightmare and fear, trapped in the echoing void of darkness before science graced humanity with light.

She  _is_ a firm believer in money and knowledge; her clients seem to have too much of the former and not near enough of the latter.

The leather of an old book greets her like a comforting friend as she runs her hand across the spine. The Whittemore library is always spoken highly of in the circles which she travels. She’s only ever seen it in once, when she was in high school, after midnight with Mr. Whittemore’s sour son groping at her chest.

She’s always cursed she never took the time to appreciate it that night, too busy with Jackson’s wandering hands and greedy lips.

Today, it seems as if her youthful investment has served her well. She was surprised when Jackson called her office last week, voice feigning that same confidence he carried in high school. She offered banal platitudes as he told her of his father’s stroke, quickly growing bored with such an unexpected and undesirable phone call from an old flame that extinguished over eight years ago.

She was about to make a quick escape when he mentioned the infamous library.

“They say you’re the best rare book dealer around,” he says to her now, stroking her ego just as he knows she’s always appreciated. “Incredible, isn’t it? How we both have risen so high?”

He inherited his father’s real estate law firm while she makes thousands traveling the world to pursue greater insight; in one day she handles more money than he will ever see in his life. For him to even compare them makes her blood boil. Still, he’s not the only one who knows how to appeal to another’s vanity.

Besides, it’s hard to be angry with a copy of such a rare and marvelous book in her hands. She feigns a smile at him, flipping the old pages between her fingers. Nothing is as pleasurable as the feel of rag paper against her skin; the common wood rubbish that makes up today’s market can never possibly compare.

“Truly remarkable that Beacon Hills can boast of such an accomplishment,” she says, closing the beloved book. Her heart aches as she places it on the ornate oak desk that takes up most of the library. It is covered in loose papers and a litter of paperweights; she’s never met Jackson’s father but is certain he was eccentric. “Before we were born, I would say the highest achievement was the high school lacrosse team.”

Jackson smirks at her. The broad length of his shoulders and the height of his chin charmed her in her youth, but now all she sees is the same type of man she’s dealt with her entire career and a truly appalling waste of such perfect bone structure.

“New York must be amazing,” Jackson says, swirling a glass of scotch. He holds it tightly in his hand as if it’s an integral part of his anatomy. After a long second, he looks up at her under his eyelashes, “I’ve been considering relocating there.”

“It is truly a grand city,” she hums distractedly as she looks around the library.

She could spend ages in this room; she could die happy as long as she could read every single one of these books and absorb the knowledge that resides in the dark, ancient ink.

Unfortunately, being around Jackson reminds her of a different time, the insecurity that warped her expansive intellect, the crushing feeling like she wasn’t enough, the pressure to be normal rather than an outlier.

“Maybe if I’m ever in town, we could-”

“Six hundred thousand,” she says quickly. “That’s my estimate.”

She turns, amusement blooming in her chest at Jackson’s punched expression.

“If we sell it as a collection,” she clarifies, gracefully letting him gather himself. Lydia almost wishes she had waited for him to take a sip before shocking him so, but she couldn’t risk offending what is to be her prize pig at the county fair. “A little less, if we sell it off piece by piece, but it would certainly move faster if speed is your goal.”

Once he recovers, Jackson lets her know that speed is certainly his goal. He plans to buy a home in Manhattan, he tells her, and he can’t possibly let his family’s heirlooms weigh him down any longer.

She senses him steering the conversation back to asking her out, so Lydia is quick to pull out her contract. They discuss details for a long while, negotiate her percentage, and she has to corral him to sign the dotted line. She certainly doesn’t remember him being this chatty in high school. Doubtless, this newfound loquaciousness has everything to do with her low cut top and spectacular reputation.

Men like Jackson are always looking for a trophy wife to crow over.

“Wonderful,” Lydia beams, taking back the forms before he can change his mind. “I’ll send some people over within a few days and move the inventory to a secure location. Then, I can start finding buyers for you.”

The whole situation is all going so well that Lydia almost feels bad for turning him down so. People change after high school- she herself has evolved into almost an entirely new being.

Right as she opens her mouth to offer him another chance at wooing her, she feels the familiar jolt of an unwanted hand striking against her behind.

A flash of fire burns through her core at his impertinence, and another for her own inexplicable ignorance.

She twists her tiny hands into fists, but when she turns to him, he is greeted with a sanguine smile.

“Right,” she says lightly, forcing her posture to relax. She grabs the book she had laid down on the table earlier; the heavy weight of it against her side is as comforting as a mother’s hug. “I personally would like to offer you two thousand for this piece- no, wait, because we’re friends, I’ll make it twenty-five hundred.”

Before he can answer, she uses her free hand to reach into her purse. She pulls out an envelope containing a thick wad of bills.

“Oh,” Jackson says, dumbly, eyeing the money like a hungry hyena. He laughs, “I guess it’s essentially worthless, then, compared to the rest of the collection.”

“Unfortunately,” Lydia tells him. “But I have a colleague who has the most bizarre hobby of collecting the author. She would just be so delighted if I brought her back such a trinket.”

She thinks of Kira’s ecstatic peel of laughter and it gives her the energy to radiate a smile so bright it becomes dazzling.

Back at the hotel, Lydia finally allows herself to unwind. She calls for room service to bring up a bottle of wine, something old, something red, and spends hours turning through the pages of a book so rare it would make weaker beings drool. 

 

Again, Lydia isn’t one to believe in the occult, but the rush that flooded her when Jackson blindly accepted her offer simply must be on par with the power of the witches that Molitor wrote so fervently about.

Truly, Jackson Whittemore is a boy not worthy of his family's name. _On Witches and Female Soothsayers_ is a priceless collectible in the circles she travels; once word gets out that she owns the original work, she will have to beat off offers with a stick. Jackson’s forefather must be rolling in their graves at what their kin has so foolishly done. It’s been in the Whittemore family for so long that there has been no documented owner for centuries. People assumed it was an item lost to time when all along it was sitting, unloved, on a bookshelf.

She thinks of her own mother, who sold off every family item and property piece by piece to help Lydia have a debt free education at Yale the very second Lydia told her she was applying. She and Natalie haven’t always had the best mother-daughter relationship, but no one can deny that they love each other.

It wasn’t just an investment in Lydia’s future, it was a promise, and a show of faith. It was an apology for ever letting her husband treat Lydia like she was less than, for saying nothing as he belittled her and laughed at her counselor’s recommendations for IQ testing.

After Lydia made her first big sale as a book dealer, she bought her mother an apartment in New York as a way to say thank you. She still remembers the tears that ran down Natalie’s face as Lydia pressed the keys into her mother’s trembling hand.

It’s after 8 when the telephone rings. Lydia debates not answering, her mother always said that anyone who calls after dinnertime can only be up to trouble. It continues to ring with the annoyance of a persistent fly and Lydia sighs as she picks it up, hoping against hope that it's the concierge to tell her about the hotel's luxurious spa. 

It's not. Lydia met Kira when she was meant to have lunch with Noshiko, Kira's mother, to sell her some lovely pieces Lydia had found in Japan. They were to be a birthday present for her husband. Unfortunately for Noshiko, she had a prior engagement, so she sent Kira in her stead. It was very fortunate for Lydia, as Kira knew nothing about books and even less about bartering. 

Lydia could have taken her for every penny of her inheritance and Kira would have blindly given it to her with a sweet smile. Lydia almost had, in fact, a voice like a snake in her ears telling her it's kill or be killed, but Lydia was unable to close the deal. 

Something about Kira was pure in a way Lydia hadn't seen in far too long. She wanted to keep her around for as long as she could manage. She ended up giving her a discount on the tombs and offering her a job at Lydia's bookstore in New York. 

“You better have something older than the 1400’s for me,” Lydia says in greeting, fiddling with the tie of her robe. She swirls the wine in the glass, letting it aerate, recalling her first public function in Freshman year where she had to mingle with people far above her standing, how she knew nothing and had to fake her way through everything with flaming cheeks and a stuttering tongue. 

Look at her now. Would that tripping, toddling girl be proud of her? Lydia likes to think so, but, in all honestly, she lost track of that girl long ago. 

“He might as well be,” Kira scoffs. While it's good to hear her voice, Lydia knows exactly what that specific tone means. “Guess who heard you’re in town and wants to meet with you?”

Lydia clenches her eyes shut. When booking her plane ticket, she had concerns that word would spread through the grapevine like this.

“Please tell me it’s not who I think it is,” Lydia begs, throwing her hand down in frustration.

“The Devil himself,” Kira says, confirming her deepest fears.

Unfortunately, Lydia’s mom wasn’t able to pay for her education alone. Lydia also had the help of a benefactor: Peter Hale. During her senior year, Lydia wrote an essay on Demons and Medieval Literature. It was chosen by her school to receive an award and become published in a local newspaper. It wasn't really a big deal, except that it was. It was the first validation from a town that tried too hard to stifle her that Lydia was meant for bigger things than Beacon Hills. It was the first thing that gave her hope she could escape the small town that squeezed her like a corset, always trying to make her fit in ways she couldn't. 

This caught the attention of one Peter Hale. He reached out to her and her mother and asked if he could meet with them over lunch to discuss an opportunity. Now, Lydia's mother fielded lunch offers left and right ever since she wised up enough to divorce the man that tried to silence every part of Lydia that wanted to scream, but this was the first to invite Lydia along as well. 

Peter wooed her mother. He was charismatic and charming and intelligent, everything Beacon Hills wasn't. The Hales were old money; they owned half of the land that Beacon Hills was built on. The family mysteriously died a fire decades ago, leaving Peter Hale and his nieces and nephews as the sole inheritors of the estate.

When Peter Hale offered you money, you didn't turn it down, but that's exactly what Lydia wanted to do.

He offered them up an opportunity they couldn’t possibly refuse. He claimed to be so impressed by Lydia’s writing ability that he wanted to make an investment, to see how far she could go under the right guiding hand.

In one afternoon, a complete stranger changed her life by offering to pay half of her tuition for as long as she wanted to attend college. His eyes were alight with passion and fire as he even promised grad school if she wanted, gloating over his own Ph.D. in the process.

Lydia never felt quite right about accepting the deal. She almost refused as soon as the offer left his serpent lips. Something about this man rubbed her wrong. There was a curl to the edges of his smile that set her on edge, a coldness to his blue eyes that made her avoid looking into them.

Her mother had no such qualms.

“In my experience, sugar,” she had said later that night after Lydia demanded they decline the money. “If a rich man is offering you free money, you take as much as you can.”

Nothing in life is ever truly free, is it?

Peter became more of an enigma as time went on. If he was in the Connecticut area, which he seemed to be often, for some strange reason, he would ask her to meet him for dinner. She had difficulties turning these meetings down, unable to validate rebuffing someone who was spending such an exuberant amount of money on her.

As time went on, these dinners became more and more lavish, but the content never changed. Peter would ask what she was studying, and from there he would debate topics with her until she felt like she was back in a classroom, ideas and philosophies bouncing back and forth across the dinner table like a tennis match.

He would even go so far as to mail her books, delicate, ornate things with thick binding and soft leather covers, and demand she write him essays on them, just to keep her wits about her. This, on top of her regular curriculum, was especially grueling, but she did it without complaint. She couldn’t deny the one-on-one critique didn’t make her a better writer, and it was nice, in a way, to be around someone who challenged her intellect.

It was Peter himself who inspired her career choice, dangling all of those precious, rare books in front of her as he did.

On the surface, Peter has been nothing but kind to her. She has nothing to complain about, and most people who she describes the situation to see her as unequivocally lucky, a rock plucked from obscurity and polished into a diamond.

She’s never had the words to explain how Peter makes her feel, the way every time he’s around her something deep and primal inside of her screams at her to run, how every time he leaves her at her door she finds herself trembling, tears building at the corner of her eyes.

He’s never once behaved inappropriately to her. He’s never propositioned her, never demanded she repay him for his kindness, but every interaction with him makes her feel as if she has one foot caught in a bear trap, waiting for it to snap shut on her.

Kira was the first person to ever understand the look in her eyes after she got off the phone with him. It’s Kira who held her as she collapsed against the stairs, chest rising and falling too fast to function, after Peter left their small store in New York, doorbell jingling at his departure, his harsh criticism about her shoddy, small store still hanging in the air.  

She hates how much she needs his praise, how he has so diligently tapped into her need for fatherly approval, covertly carved into her skull to create a space for himself in her irrational brain. Being around him is like a drug she never consented to take; his admiration floods her with a high she can’t come down from until she escapes his gravitational orbit and she loathes it in a way she never can him.

Maybe it’s not Peter at all that she’s afraid of, maybe it’s the way she wants against all logic to so badly please him.

“I can call him back,” Kira says, bringing her back to Earth like she always does with her gentle, soothing voice. “I can tell him you’re having dinner with a client.”

Lydia feels repulsed at the very idea of dinner with Jackson this late, at what Peter would _think_ , though it makes for a tempting lie.

Still, she shakes her head, “No, it’s okay. If I see him now, maybe he won’t come to New York and we can finally have peace for a few months.”

Kira huffs through the phone and Lydia can picture her rolling her eyes. The mental image makes her smile, fond, and suddenly she aches for the comfort of home, to be out of this town that feels like it’ll never stop holding her head under water.

“It’s so senseless that he guilts you into meetings with him like this. He doesn’t _own_ you. I don’t know why you still put up with him- men like him are as good as poison.”

Lydia presses her lips together to contain a sigh. She and Kira have had this conversation too many times to count. She can’t afford to rehash it again; historically, they exhaust her, and she’s going to need every ounce of energy in her to hold her own against Peter.

Instead of explaining herself, Lydia shrugs, “I think he thinks we’re friends. I’m cruel, but I’m not heartless.”

It gets a weak laugh from Kira, which is always good enough for Lydia. They say their goodbyes, leaving Lydia alone in an unfamiliar hotel room, all the warmth sucked from the air as she hangs up.

After a long beat of silence, Lydia gathers the fortitude to dial Peter Hale, a number she knows by heart. His voice slithers through her ears as though it's made a home there, and it probably has. He’s absolutely agonized over her not informing him of her being in town so she makes up a lie to save face, claiming to have heard a rumor of him visiting Chichen Itza for the Spring.

He seems to accept it without too much pestering. They agree to meet in the bar in the lobby of her hotel, which is a bit of a drive for him all the way to Beacon City.

Despite the mounds of money he inherited after his family perished, Peter has been determined to remain in a town in which she has always been so desperate to escape. If anything, she had always thought Peter had more reason to leave Beacon Hills than she did, but she’s never brought it up and he’s never offered.

She dresses in the nicest dress she brought with her. Lydia never leaves the comfort of New York without a variety of outfits, just in case of emergencies such as this.

At the bar, she sits on her stool with a leg draped over the other, the slit in her maroon dress dragging elegantly across her thigh. Peter has always kept things platonic between them, never giving the barest hint of sexual predation, but there are hints that he finds her attractive, and Lydia knows how to weaponize her beauty.

This won’t be like last time, with her violently struggling for air in the wake of his disdain. She wants so desperately to win against Peter, in some way, but the chasm between her success and his generosity in cultivating who she is today seems continually never ending.

While she waits for him, she fiddles with the wine at the bottom of her glass, eyes roaming around the lobby in hopes of finding something to hold her attention. Unless she keeps busy, the anxiety may just eat her alive. Plus, the less interested she looks, the more afraid the men in the corner of the room are of approaching her. 

In the corner of the room, in a chair by the fire, she sees a woman slumped down, reading a book. She’s gorgeous, Lydia notes, in a way that’s not seen often, like some ancient beauty Sappho would write sonnets over. Her dark hair is cropped short, edges hanging around her sharp jaw in a way Lydia's never seen before. Most women try to make themselves look smaller, softer, but this creature in front of her does the opposite. She demands you look at her edges, dares you to cut yourself on her knife's edge.

Lydia's instantly intrigued and tries to peer closer, wondering if maybe she's met her before. Beacon Hills has always been a small town, and it's only twenty minutes away in light traffic. It would make sense if they went to high school together. 

And maybe Peter would understand her blowing him off tonight if she told him about the gorgeous girl that captured her attention instead. They've always had a similar weakness for stunning rarities. 

Unfortunately, the closer Lydia looks, she realizes she's never met the girl before. She aches, almost desperately, to have shared a class with her, or to have passed her on the street at least once, some simple way to build a bridge between them.

With finely honed senses, Lydia is able to instantly tell that the book she's holding isn’t just a normal library book. The cover is partially burned, the pages aged, and the writing is not of a Gutenberg pressed font but delicately written by hand. It's far too old to be a personal journal. Lydia smoothes out her dress and fiddles with her hair, ready to smile and introduce herself as Lydia Martin, rare book dealer extraordinaire. 

“ _Metamorphosis_ ,” a familiar voice says. Lydia looks over to find that Peter has taken a seat beside her, sports coat draped across the back to reveal a softer silk. He smiles with his teeth, an edge Lydia has never seen as he gestures to the woman in the corner, “Yes, it caught my eye on the way in as well. It appears to be a German version. My family used to own the initial Greek edition; I found much was lost when it was adapted from the original translation, wouldn’t you agree?”

Lydia has never read the novel, but she can understand the elitism Peter is getting at. It's not an uncommon thought among people she sells to. Rather than admit her own ignorance, Lydia readily agrees, “Of course. The sight of it must grieve you; the loss of knowledge is always something to mourn.”

“Too true, my dear, and I fear I have many more years of mourning ahead of me,” Peter says, finally giving her his full attention. He angles back to her, the girl in the corner a thing of the past to him. “What are you drinking? I’ll buy you another.”

They trade pleasantries for a few minutes. Peter discusses the offer to teach a course on Medieval Literature at Willamette University which they both know he’ll agonize over for a few weeks before turning down. It’s a constant pattern with Peter.

He briefly interrogates her dating life, or lack thereof, before Lydia distracts him with the newest edition to her collection. She pulls it from the purse dangling across the back of her chair and smiles as she watches him reverently touch the pages.

For a few moments, it’s almost pleasant being around Peter. The conversation falls naturally between them as it always has. In moments like this, she is able to forget every scathing remark hidden with a loathsome grin.

“It’s glorious,” he says, using a voice most save for worship. “I’ve read the mass market produced paperback version, of course, but there’s something magical left in the spine of an original work.”

Lydia hums, “Yes, I know what you mean, almost as if every word preserves the author’s life force.”

“In books like this, that may almost be true,” Peter laughs. He catches himself as if the noise surprises him. His face stills before it relaxes into something neutral, and Lydia feels her chest cave in as he slowly closes the cover. “You have such a talent for acquiring books like these. Your drive is truly admirable.”

Just as soon as the panic washed over her it recedes, like the tide drowning the shore before being pulled back. She tries her best to grin at him in thanks, opening her mouth to humbly reject his admiration, but he cuts her off.

“I feel as if you have finally reached the apex of the potential I saw in you when you were but a 17 year-old-girl.”

It’s an odd turn of phrase, but it’s the epitome pride in his voice that makes her chest flutter with glee. She wants to wrap this moment in saran wrap to preserve it, press it like flowers in an old book to dry and keep forever.

“You’ve always been my favorite investment,” he says, cutting off the warmth like a God denying his worshippers water. He steeples his fingers together and stares at her, blue eyes too cold, too intense, “For years, you’ve asked me how you can possibly pay me back for how I’ve tended to you like a beloved garden, snipping and pruning until you are the woman I see before me. Today, I finally feel as if you are ready for the opportunity.”

The air is so tense it chokes her, sullying her lungs with too much fear. She takes a sip of her wine, desperate for the reprieve from his heavy stare and overbearing expectations. The confirmation that he _has_ been grooming her for something, that he is not just a misunderstood, kind man who wanted to help a kindred spirit, is enough to tilt her whole world on its axis.

Of course, she always suspected it to be this way, but to speculate you have a guillotine hovering above your head isn’t as spine-chilling as knowing it’s there.

Still. She’s a professional. A debt is a debt. She can always turn down the job. She can always walk out of Peter Hale’s life forever.

So, she pushes back the mountain of hurt, makes herself a river that goes with the current, and asks, “What do you need?”

And Peter smiles like a snake at the sight of a rat.


End file.
